In the large inner hall was a wide horseshoe staircase, which I ascended. On every hand was a regal splendour, all in excellent taste and all very new, for the palace built by King Milan has been renovated since 1903, when the former royal residence of such tragic memory was pulled down. Its site is now a pretty lawn. At the head of the stairs the Royal Marechal, Colonel Tcholak-Antich, a young man in bright blue uniform and many decorations, met me. With the usual etiquette he told me his name, I told him mine, and we shook hands. Then he said, “His Majesty is anxious that you should sign his birthday book,” and he led me to the big council-chamber, where at the head of the table he opened a beautiful book, which I signed upon the proper page. [Illustration: The Royal Palace, Belgrade: The Ballroom.] I was at once conducted to the audience-chamber, the double doors of which—to prevent eavesdroppers—were closed behind me, and I was left alone to await His Majesty. The room, of fine dimensions, seemed, under the myriad electric lamps, ablaze with gold. The beautiful gilt furniture showed well against the carpet of crushed-strawberry, the damask of the upholstery matching the carpet and being brocaded with gold. Several fine modern paintings were upon the walls, and in the centre of the magnificent apartment a large settee and several fine gilt chairs set against a big gilt Renaissance table. Scarce had I time to glance at my surroundings when the long white folding-doors at the end of the room opened, and there entered a slim, alert figure in a dark blue military uniform—a keen, dark-eyed, grey-moustached man with a pleasant smile and hand outstretched—His Majesty. I made my obeisance, and took the proffered hand. “Come,” said the King kindly in French, seating himself at the table, and motioning me to a chair opposite him. “Well,” he commenced, “you know I have lived in London, and I have heard of you, Monsieur N——,” and he went on to say some highly gratifying words concerning myself; then producing a big silver box of most excellent Servian cigarettes, gave me one, held the match for me, and also smoked himself. He was, I noticed, quick, smart, and shrewd, with both figure and bearing that greatly reminded me of Lord Roberts, his general’s dark undress uniform being relieved by one touch of colour, the crimson-and-white ribbon and white enamelled star of Karageorge. Then, when we were comfortably settled, I explained to him my reasons for visiting the Balkans.